


Sleight of Hand

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dom/sub Undertones, H/D Cluefest 2021, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Murder (Poisoning/Non-graphic), Mystery, Oral Sex, Poison Ring, Poisoning, Ring Kink, Veritaserum, alcohol consumption, assassin!Draco, auror!Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28857087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It’s another one of those horrid Ministry affairs, and the only interesting thing is twinkling from Draco Malfoy’s finger. Can you really blame Harry for being fascinated by the gorgeous emerald ring and those long, elegant hands, especially when he’s certain Malfoy isup to something?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 17
Kudos: 146
Collections: H/D Cluefest 2021





	Sleight of Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my incredible alpha/beta/cheerleading team, M, L, T, & G, without whom this fic would not be possible.

There was something _off_ about the rings Malfoy wore today, Harry was sure of it. Added to the triad of slim silver bands he usually wore on his thumb and first two fingers were two ornate bands on his right hand. There was a heavy signet ring on his right pointer finger, silver with some sort of impression that Harry could not quite make out, and on his ring finger, a large emerald stone sparkled from a wide silver band. They seemed too heavy for those gorgeous, delicate hands, like they were borrowed, and Harry didn’t like _that_ one bit.

It was odd, because Malfoy was usually so particular about his rings. _It’s the triad_ , he had explained once, leaning over the crisp white tablecloth at one of these dreary Ministry affairs, disdain obvious in his tone, _three silver bands, studded with Malfoy heritage diamonds, to increase casting specificity and power_. He had dangled that hand in front of Harry like it was a gift, fingers long and lean and somehow both soft and coursing with power. Harry had tried not to make his interest obvious as he peered at the three simple silver rings, studded with a trio of black diamonds on each. _These_ fit Malfoy’s hands as if they were merely an extension of his very skin, made for him and shaped to perfection.

But it was tonight’s aberration that had Harry watching those slim fingers more intently than ever. His eyes tracked those long, thin hands as they stroked over the stem of Malfoy's wine glass, as they held a knife as gently as if it were a violin bow, as they smoothed over an invisible wrinkle in his crisp black waistcoat. Harry had seen him at enough of these events to know that Malfoy was far too pressed and careful with his tailoring charms to have a single seam out of line.

A thousand images flashed through Harry’s mind as Malfoy twisted his hand over the base of his wine glass. Malfoy at sixteen, bent over a cauldron, stirring carefully (too carefully), all slicked-back hair and robes buttoned up to his chin. Malfoy at nineteen, fingers curled over the handle of his wand during the spring of their NEWT-levels, looking skittish and world-weary, shoulders hunched like he hoped no one would notice him.

Malfoy at twenty-three, that hand tugging Harry over to the pub loo, those hands tracing down his shirt and lower, _lower_. They had sworn never to speak of it again, and in truth, Harry had tried to put it out of his mind.

Watching Malfoy tonight, it was more clear than ever that Harry had failed at forgetting. They passed in the halls of the Ministry, sometimes, eyes meeting across the lift, across the canteen. And at these events. They’d share polite conversation only when it was required, and leave such conversations as quickly as possible. And yet. _And yet._

There was a kind of magnetism, as if the rings twined around Malfoy’s fingers were beckoning him. _Come closer_. _Taste me again_. Harry had had him only once and yet, he could still feel those fingers on his skin, tracing down the opened collar of his shirt, sparks of magic flying between them.

He watched with a twinge of jealousy as Malfoy offered his hand to a dignitary here, and another one there, exposing the edge of his wrist and the heavy silver watch just beneath his sleeve as he did. Each of _them_ had the privilege of touching that hand, feeling its soft, powerful grip against their own, and Harry’s chest twisted in a deep rage he had not realized was within him. The urge to rip through each handshake, to grab Malfoy’s hand and claim it as his own, was consuming.

Perhaps if he had not been watching those confident, assured fingers as they trailed across the room, and glaring at Malfoy’s suave, intelligent smile, the way he could just _pull_ , just _tilt his head_ and whomever he was speaking to would smile right on back, as if they were utterly entranced, perhaps if he had not been watching, he would not have caught him in the act.

But he was watching. So he saw as Malfoy turned, leaving a pretty young diplomat in velvety robes looking a little pink and smiling softly into her wine. He _saw_ Malfoy carefully shift just _so_ until he had joined a conversation with an elderly wizard and the Minister of Magic. It was a careful dance, and Malfoy knew it well, he moved so smoothly. If Harry had not been tracking the situation from across the room, it would have seemed an accident for Malfoy to be caught up in conversation with Minister Mather. It was so clearly _not_ an accident.

Malfoy was speaking to him, leaning in close and listening. Moving _those_ hands animatedly, and Harry could see, even from so far away, the Minister shifting closer, intrigued. Engaged. Harry sat forward, putting his palms flat on the table in front of him to steady himself as he peered across the room, not bothering to hide his blatant interest.

They both leaned back to laugh, the sound so loud and full-bellied Harry could hear it across the room, and that was when Malfoy did _something_ with his hands that didn’t seem quite right. Harry watched, squinting, as Malfoy’s hands came together _just_ over the edge of the Minister’s wine goblet. It was the quickest motion, a single twitch of those careful fingers, but it was enough. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, but whatever it was that Malfoy had done must have been what he came for, because he swirled away in the next breath, that self-important smile slick over his face as he wooed yet another of his socialite sect.

Harry stared at the wine goblet now, trying to recreate the motion that Malfoy had done over his own glass. One hand passed over the other, a single twitch of the fingers, too careful to have been anything _but_ intentional. Harry passed his own hands over each other, trying to retrace what the movement might have been--

A posh voice snapped just beside his ear, “You’ll say nothing,” in the tone of one who knows precisely how correct he must be. And that voice, _oh_ , that voice. The commanding tone of it thrilled through him as perfectly as it had nearly five years before.

And Malfoy slid into the empty chair at Harry’s right, those gorgeous hands steepled at his lips, rings on both hands catching the light, his elbows uncharacteristically on the table. Those sharp grey eyes, like steel lit right as the flint strikes up a spark, peered at him with a piercing expression, holding Harry still. Harry did not breathe, letting his right hand slip surreptitiously to the wand holstered at his thigh.

“Won’t I?” Harry asked, electing not to feign innocence. He tilted his head, leaning just forward enough to keep Malfoy’s gaze on his face, rather than his hands.

But Malfoy was sly, and he smirked, eyes sliding pointedly to Harry’s thigh, to his covert right hand. He flicked his long blond hair over his shoulder, the large signet ring catching the strands and leaving them just slightly out of place. Harry wanted to lean over and fix it, to tug the hair into place, to hold him there. He stayed implacably still, waiting.

It was a chess game, the two of them, sitting side by side in front of a wide and empty table, as the milieu of the Ministry played out around them. Their table was deadly quiet.

Malfoy reached over, placing a warm palm over the back of Harry’s hand, drawing it gently back to him. Harry swallowed hard, throat almost painfully tight as he watched that hand play over the back of his skin, the careful ghost of a touch sending a hot flush up his neck. Malfoy brought Harry’s hand forward, fingers plying his palm into relaxation in a movement that was almost a massage, bizarre and gentle but firm and _Godric_ , Harry did not want him to stop.

_Those same fingers, long and thin, sinking into Harry’s hips, nails biting as Malfoy tugged, pulled him closer, and Disapparated them in a flash, dragging them into Malfoy’s flat. Harry hadn’t seen an inch of the flat beyond the bedroom. Malfoy had sat him down and taken his hand then too, stroked his fingers over it, and then his tongue, and Harry had forgotten how to breathe entirely._

He let Malfoy touch him, let him rub sensation into his palm, fingertips ghosting over the heel of his hand in such a gentle touch that Harry shivered, eyes falling shut. When he opened them again, just a beat later, Malfoy’s sharp gray eyes held him again, hard and unflinching, and bright against his pale skin.

“You and I both know that this Minister needs to be removed,” Malfoy murmured, sotto voce. Harry squinted at him, eyebrows creasing _just slightly_ as he tried to understand what exactly Malfoy was implying. He always had this way about him, of speaking in tongues and metaphors that never quite made sense until someone else said it out loud. And when they did say it, it became _their_ idea and not Malfoy’s. He kept his lips pressed tightly shut. “And we know the Wizengamot won’t depose him.”

Harry tugged his hand away, realizing suddenly that Malfoy had no right to hold his hand, to touch him like that, to distract him. He shoved his hands under the table, hoping to disguise the heat that had overwhelmed him, setting his palms clammy as he rubbed them over his suit trousers.

He took a deep breath, trying to stay as silent as possible, keeping his eyes on Malfoy. The corners of his lips were twitching, as if he were repressing a smile, and Harry frowned, crossing his arms. He really had no right to be so smarmy, Harry thought, and tried to recall what it was exactly that Malfoy had said so that he could offer a properly rude response.

“Be my ally, won’t you, Potter?” Malfoy said, the corners of his lips turning up, finally, into that smile, those gray eyes tightening just so. He pushed away from the table, dancing off with another flip of his hair. Malfoy raised his bare hand as he walked away, a little wiggle of his fingers in dismissal and Harry scowled at that ridiculous wave.

And then his frown sank into an expression of absolute dismay. His eyes fell from Malfoy’s bare hand to his own. Harry pulled his hands from under the table, where he had fisted them in the tablecloth, and laid them flat in front of him, eyes wide. There, on the middle and first finger of his right hand, precisely where those soft fingers had plied him apart and distracted him, were the pair of rings that Malfoy had been wearing only a moment ago.

Dread settled in the pit of his stomach as Malfoy’s words sank into his head. _Be my ally_ , he had said in that ridiculously posh voice, suave and careful and so demanding that Harry had wanted to sink right into him and follow every command. Hands shaking just slightly, he ran a finger over the surface of the large emerald ring, distracted by the way the color seemed to dance across the surface.

Then he felt it. The catch. Just below the beveled edge of the stone, as tiny as the head of a pin. He pressed into it and the ring slid open with a soft _snick_ , the stone swinging away to reveal a tiny chamber beneath. Harry clenched his fist, eyeing the stone now borne by his first finger and the residue of a clear potion around the inside of the ring.

Heart in his ears, he was out of his seat and racing after Malfoy before he could take a second breath. He hadn’t hesitated to debate between going after Malfoy or running to save the Minister. Malfoy was moving quickly with that same subtle grace that would not attract attention, but Harry thundered after him, paying no mind to the startled stares of the other party-goers. Harry reached for him as they reached the edge of the entrance hall, glancing behind them for an instant to see the Minister collapse like a sack, sending his glass of red wine spilling across the white tablecloth with a clatter.

Harry grabbed Malfoy’s shoulder as the doors to the hall were thrown open, making contact just as Malfoy twisted away, dragging Harry with him in a dizzying swirl of Apparition.

He landed on his feet in a flat that was too posh to belong to anyone but Malfoy and drew his wand, putting it to Malfoy’s chest. Malfoy rolled his eyes, sipping at the glass of wine he had stolen from the soiree, his free hand combing through that ridiculous blond hair, tousled by the motion of shifting through space.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, stepping just closer, hand tight around the wand, those rings glinting.

“Ah,” Malfoy smiled bitterly, lips curling up at the corners, his eyes wide and dark. Malfoy wrapped both of his hands around Harry’s, pushing it down just slightly.

“What have you done,” Harry bit out, words spitting between his teeth. Malfoy ran his hands around Harry’s, and Harry tugged away, keeping his grip on his wand. The rings were back in Malfoy’s hand, dangling between his two fingers. Malfoy cocked his head, arching an eyebrow.

“Thank you for delivering these to me, by the by,” he drawled, sliding them back onto his hand. Harry most definitely didn’t watch them settle at the base of his finger, a _perfect_ fit right there on Malfoy’s right hand; didn’t watch as his left tugged them into place, twisting around his finger in a way that made Harry imagine those hands twisting around somewhere else.

“It won’t matter, though,” Malfoy was saying, and Harry took a deep breath to bring himself back to the moment at hand.

“What won’t?” he asked without thinking, eyes still on that hand, the way that Malfoy was twirling the ring around and around his finger. “I’ve caught you, murder weapon in hand. You killed the Minister. You _killed_ him.”

Malfoy turned away from him, then, and Harry followed, wand still drawn and pointed at him, becoming more confused by the moment. He flickered the hand with the pair of rings at him. “And yet, you have not arrested me, have you, Potter?”

They stood for a moment that stretched too long, Harry’s wand drawn and pointed at Malfoy, Malfoy still standing there utterly unbothered. As if he had no care in the world. It felt as though they were two magnets, repelled from each other and yet inextricably linked, tied to the spot where they would rotate around each other until time itself stopped.

Malfoy took a single step forward. Harry kept his wand up, though he felt the tiniest shake in his wrist, his resolve wavering as those steely gray eyes pinned him to the floor. He swallowed hard, keeping his wand hand straight and his gaze even, and breathed slowly, trying to center himself. He had witnessed a murder. He had the suspect at wand’s length, with all the strength of the Auror force behind him. So why was he so unwilling to cast the _Incarcerous_ to bring him down?

Malfoy’s hands flashed, the silver-brightness of those rings sharp, eye-catching. It was just enough of a distraction for Malfoy to step even closer without Harry realizing. His wand was mere centimetres from Malfoy’s chest, straight and even and nearly sparking with the strength of his magic where it coursed from his chest down to the tip of his finger and into the wand.

“I have a proposition, Potter,” Malfoy drawled, voice commanding and powerful. That wicked smile quirked up at the corners and he stepped even closer, until the wand pressed against his chest. He was raw energy, raw ambition, and Harry felt his resolve waver ever further. Why had he not yet cast? Why was Malfoy still free, rings bright on his fingers?

“A proposition,” Harry breathed, barely hearing the words as they tumbled from his lips. Malfoy smiled, then, a cruel and winning smile with the corners of his lips curled up at the edges.

“Oh yes,” he went on, voice still strong but with an edge of -- could it be _desire_ , thick and sultry in his tone? Surely not. Surely Harry was imagining that. “You are _intrigued_ ,” Malfoy drawled. “Lean into it. Let’s play a game.”

“A game?” Harry asked, eyes flickering down his wand where the tip rested against Malfoy’s deep black dress shirt.

“Do you only know how to repeat my words?” Malfoy asked. His eyes found Harry’s, pinning him in place once again. Harry’s breath caught in his throat as Malfoy’s hand -- the one with the rings -- pressed over the wrist that was against his chest. Malfoy pushed, thumb digging into Harry’s wrist, until he broke away, just barely maintaining his hold on his wand.

And Malfoy didn’t let go when the hand was away from his chest, rubbing his thumb more gently against the flat of Harry’s forearm. It was a thrilling sensation, and he wondered at it, imagining for an instant that he could feel the very ridges of Malfoy’s fingerprint as it moved over his pulsepoint. The sharp edge of that emerald ring caught at his wrist, and the bite of pain made him nearly groan out loud, biting his lip at the last second. He wrenched his arm away, suddenly desolate at the loss of that sensation, of Malfoy’s hand running gentle over his arm.

“A game,” Harry said again, feeling out of focus, like he wasn’t seeing quite straight.

“Yes,” Malfoy said, though it was more victory than assent. “We have a few options, of course.”

“Of course,” Harry echoed, without thinking, and flushed just the slightest at the realization he had -- once again -- repeated Malfoy. He felt like a mirror, soaking in all of Malfoy’s shine, reflecting it back and aching, _aching_ to see every last inch of him. It was an exhilarating and maddening feeling, and he had no idea where it had come from.

“We can’t play Wizard’s Chess,” Malfoy began, “as I would destroy you, and you would claim it was unfair.”

“What are we playing for?” Harry breathed, belatedly realizing as he was halfway through re-sheathing his wand. He tucked it back into his hand, pressing the heel of the hilt into his palm, a reminder that he was here with a _murderer_ and a _dangerous criminal_.

Malfoy smiled at that, finally stepping away from their close entente. He crossed the room to a small glass bar cart and poured two glasses of an expensive-looking amber liquid. “Well, for your handcuffs, I presume,” Malfoy offered. Harry coughed at that, nearly choking on air at the image of Malfoy bound up. Unbothered, Malfoy went on, summoning two small balls of ice from a container in the cart. They _plinked_ into the glasses with a soft sound.

“If I win, you’ll wear them. And if _you_ win, well, Auror Potter,” he made a motion to cross his hands over his head, tilting his head back to bare his neck in a way that ought not have been so utterly sensual. Harry felt like he was burning all over, eyes heavy and chest _aching_ at the sight, and really, he was starting to understand the appeal of those hands, those long, muscular forearms, that neck, so neatly bared.

“We could play Muggle poker,” he went on, voice syrupy and gorgeous, “But again, I imagine _you_ might have an unfair advantage. It would be un-Slytherin of me to allow such a thing.” He _would_ have an unfair advantage, especially if Malfoy rarely played. There were near-weekly games with the Aurors on Thursdays at the pub, but Harry wasn’t quite sure how Malfoy would know about that.

“What are our other options?” Harry asked, flatly, distractedly. Malfoy was moving his hands again, one wrapping around the cool whiskey glass, the other moving to -- to offer it to him, and he took it blindly, glancing at the glass and back at Malfoy. He took a grateful sip before remembering -- and mentally cursing himself for forgetting -- that Malfoy had killed a man with a poisoned drink already once tonight. What was there to stop him from a second kill? And taking out the singular witness right along with it. It was too convenient. He looked at the glass with a sick feeling in his stomach.

“We could duel, I suppose,” Malfoy mused, ringed fingers shifting over the clear glass absentmindedly, “or we could leave it entirely to chance. Draw cards. Roll dice. Flip a Galleon. Whatever your heart desires.” On the word ‘heart,’ Malfoy’s eyes flickered down well past Harry’s heart and back to his eyes, a knowing and heated expression evident.

“I should just arrest you and have done with it,” Harry said quickly, without really thinking. The wand in his hand felt so useless, distracted as he was by Malfoy’s bright, enchanting gaze. Malfoy was incandescent, lit by the soft bulbs of the room and standing there in his black robes looking delectable and terrifying all at once.

Malfoy had aged in the years that had passed between them but it only flattered him more, giving definition to his pale skin, nuance to his sharp edges. He was still pointy and pale, but it looked on purpose now, flattering in all the right places.

“You should,” Malfoy inclined his head. They both breathed heavily into the silence, and in that moment, Harry knew he was not alone in the feeling burning in his chest to move closer, to touch, to feel that spark that flickered between them when Malfoy’s hand was on his palm, turning off the noise of the ballroom. _Framing him_ , he thought, but did it matter? If he could feel that hand ghosting over his skin once again, did it matter even a little?

“Cards,” Harry said finally, and it felt like a gasp of fresh air after being held underwater. The room felt thick with it, heavy with whatever it was bouncing between them, aching between them. Malfoy took a long drink from his glass, the ice cube clinking against his teeth, leaving his lips shiny with water when he withdrew.

Harry pressed his own hand hard into the glass, palm against it, letting the cold ground him, distract him. It was a balm, but not nearly enough. From nowhere, Malfoy drew out a deck of cards and began to shuffle them with a touch of wandless magic. They shuffled and made a bridge, and clicked against each other as they went.

Malfoy folded the deck back into itself and sent it across the room to Harry, who caught it, eyes wide at the trick. “Check them,” Malfoy said, voice commanding, and Harry moved to comply without thinking about it. He cast a few standard Auror-grade revealing charms, turning up nothing but the fact that these were ordinary Muggle playing cards.

He paged through them, looking for any evidence that cards were missing, but found none. It felt like a full deck. Looked like one. He stepped across the room, drawing the metre or two distance between them ever smaller, and held out the cards. Rather than step closer (and oh did Harry wish he would), Malfoy summoned the deck, letting it shoot into his hand without a flick of his wand and twirl into a shuffling circle. He flicked his fingers and they all collapsed neatly into a pile.

“Cut the deck,” Malfoy said, palm outstretched, the deck atop. Harry raised his wand, eyes not leaving Malfoy’s, and cast to split the deck in half and reform, one half atop the other. He did not breathe for the entire interaction, not entirely certain of how it was he was still standing when his knees felt weak at Malfoy’s show of wandless magic. It wasn’t right, but he felt hazy with want and distracted by the flickering of those hands over the cards once again.

He felt entirely out of it as Malfoy crossed the room and settled on one of the two massive leather chairs. Malfoy set the deck facedown on the glass table stretching between the chairs and the wide black leather couch. Almost blindly, Harry walked over and settled on the couch, feeling dwarfed by its size and the depth of the seat. Harry watched Malfoy’s hands as they lifted the glass again to his lips, taking another long sip of the amber liquid. Harry watched as the smallest drip escaped the corner of his mouth, slipping down over his lips, down his chin, in an erotic and achingly hot trail. Could he remember how to breathe? Harry wasn’t certain.

“Suit?” Malfoy asked, and Harry blinked at him owlishly, eyes still trained on those hands where they were tapping annoyedly on the glass table. “Pick a _suit_ , Potter.”

“Oh,” he said, blinking down at the cards. “Er, hearts, I suppose?”

Malfoy snorted, rolling his eyes. “Hearts it is. I’ll go for spades.”

“Spades,” Harry echoed, eyes on the cards. He still was not entirely certain what was meant to happen next.

Malfoy raised his wand (not wandless this time, thank the gods, for Harry’s heart’s sake), and flicked it, sending the top card tumbling over to reveal: the six of diamonds. Malfoy breathed out a sigh, setting the cards to begin shuffling again, floating in the air between them over the table. He stared at Harry as the cards moved, eyes narrowed. Calculating, but possibly something more than that too. Could it be that he was feeling the same magnetic pull that Harry felt, as though it were drawn from his very core?

The cards fell neatly back into a pile, and Malfoy offered them for Harry to cut the deck again by hand. Harry leaned over, elbows against the cold glass of the table, and split the deck near the top, setting half on the table. He met Malfoy’s eyes as he did so, and stopped breathing for the length of their stare. Malfoy set the second half on top and raised his wand. They both looked down in anticipation.

“Call it,” Malfoy said, voice full of something indefinable, wanting and having it all right at the very same time.

“I’ll call for hearts again,” Harry said, beginning to understand how the game was played.

“And I for spades,” Malfoy echoed, and flicked his wand. The top card flipped over again, revealing the queen of clubs in all her regalness. She frowned at them both from her card as Malfoy sighed heavily. He set the cards to shuffle again, intently, watching them with a tight gaze.

The cards settled. Harry cut the deck again.

“Hearts,” Harry bit out, watching every movement of the cards against the glass.

“Spades.” And Malfoy flicked his wand. The Ace of Hearts lay flat out on the table between them. For a long moment, Harry entirely forgot what they were meant to be playing for. He had won, that much was evident, and that thrilled through him for a second’s breath. In the next breath, he realized that this meant he had won _Malfoy_ , won the right to slip those cuffs around his wrists and bring him into the Auror headquarters, proudly wielding the man who had assassinated the Minister.

Oddly, the thought didn’t excite him nearly as much as it ought to have done. He had half a mind to have Malfoy turn the cards back to shuffling, to play again, or play something else. Poker or Blackjack or something. Anything to stop them from ending here, this silent magnetism between them.

“I win,” Harry said, trying to avoid the tone of moroseness that threatened the edge of his voice.

“Indeed,” Malfoy answered, watching him. “So, Auror Potter?” he raised his wrists, a challenge.

Neither man moved for a long moment. “Or perhaps,” Malfoy drawled again, sotto voce, voice inflected with that same something _more_ that seemed to dance between them, “perhaps I can tempt you to put off the arrest for another moment more?” He paused, looking Harry over. “Or, a bit to eat, perhaps,” Malfoy intoned carefully, “more whiskey,” he nodded to the now-empty glass in Harry’s hand. He hadn’t even noticed that he had sipped it again, but his throat was parched. “Another game, maybe?”

And the idea, while utterly mad, wasn’t so crazy after all, at least in Harry’s mind. What harm could Malfoy do while they were still here together, less than a metre apart? He couldn’t leave without Harry noticing, and Harry’s reflexes were obviously faster than Malfoy’s. And perhaps, if he stayed another moment longer, he could tease out more from Malfoy, more things to add to the arrest record. Oh, how wonderful that would be.

Harry imagined adding all sorts of licentious things to the list -- and that would go public, wouldn’t it? Once the arrest was processed, it was public record and the Prophet would eat it right up. So that was why he said what he said next, right? Because of the arrest record, and not because of the idea of staying with Malfoy.

“Let’s play,” he said, voice suddenly hoarse, though he hadn’t the foggiest as to why his throat felt so tight, his body so achingly willing and wanting to be close. “I’d like that,” he added, utterly entranced. And if he had thought that those hands were gorgeous and attractive while at the Ministry, well, they were even more so as they reached for Harry as if it were nothing. And Harry took his hand, not even thinking clearly enough to decide that this was a poor idea or to wonder where Malfoy was taking them, and followed him. Malfoy summoned the whiskey and the glasses and they Apparated. In the blink of an eye and the twist of his stomach they landed on the roof of Malfoy’s massive flat.

The first thing Harry noticed was the moon, hanging low and bright and yellow over the city, so close he could make out the shapes and shadows on its face. Next, he realized that Malfoy had released his hand, and his palm felt colder without it. A tropical garden stood at the center of the roof, maintained with weather charms, steam billowing off the green leaves in silvery peals. All around them, the noise of London seemed so active and yet so far away. As lights flickered on and off in buildings around the block, Harry shifted closer to Malfoy, letting their shoulders brush, seeking that same feeling he had felt when their hands connected the first and second times tonight.

It was exhilarating. It was terrifying. It was consuming.

Malfoy took his hand boldly, pressing those long fingers against his, and tugged him to a small stone bench, which he straddled, those sharp gray eyes imploring. Harry followed, entirely willing and sat primly, facing the garden. Any semblance of concern he had had, any modicum of proper Auror protocol, was entirely out the door.

“Well?” Malfoy asked, voice edged with something heady. Harry looked at him, confused, and saw Malfoy’s other hand tugging at the hem of his dress shirt, brushing over his throat. Harry swallowed, wordless, watching as Draco loosened his tie and undid the top two buttons.

Something picked at the corner of Harry’s brain, then, watching that be-ringed hand dance over Malfoy’s front. He narrowed his eyes at Malfoy, affecting a more confident, more Aurorly stance. He shifted away from Malfoy on the bench, breathing in the cool night air.

“Let’s play a game,” Harry breathed, and somehow his voice had none of Malfoy’s unaffected air. He was entirely lost in this, caught and pinned by Malfoy’s steely expression, wanting more than anything to fall directly into it. “For every question you answer, we take off another article of clothing.”

Malfoy quirked a smile at him and crossed his arms, tossing his head so that a single lock of long blond hair that had fallen forward was shifted out of his face. “Alright,” he said wickedly. Malfoy drew his wand and Harry flinched, but he directed it past him, sending a small glass vial full of clear liquid singing through the ear a centimetre from Harry’s ear. It clicked into his hand, the decanter of whiskey and twin glasses clinking along at a slower pace. “Let’s make it interesting.”

Malfoy refilled their glasses with another finger of whiskey and set the decanter down beside the edge of the pool.

“Veritaserum?” Harry asked, mind finally catching up with him. “We don’t need that.”

“Ah, Potter,” Malfoy drawled as he turned away, that tiny vial flicking about in the palm of his hand. Harry strained to watch, but couldn’t quite see through the curtain of blond hair that fell over Malfoy’s shoulder. “You didn’t specify that I would need to answer the _truth_ , only to answer.” There was the distinct sound of a tiny bit of liquid moving, and he was back, those steely eyes drawing Harry’s gaze from the twin glasses. “Terribly un-Slytherin of you, you know.”

“I’m not a Slytherin,” he said quickly, heart in his throat.

“Of course,” Malfoy echoed. He pushed the two glasses evenly between them so they floated at chest height. “But I am. So we’ll both ask questions. You’re a good Auror. Which one has the ‘serum? Your choice.”

Harry looked at him, momentarily dumbfounded. Would he risk himself by drinking it by accident? Never. He had to be sure that Malfoy had the glass with the Veritaserum. Would it be the one at his left, closest to his dominant hand? Or at his right, near the rings that Harry had been watching since they stood across the hall at the Ministry? He leaned forward, eyes on Malfoy, and sniffed at the glasses. They were equal in liquid inside, equal in color, equal in scent, equal in everything.

Watching Malfoy, he took one glass and judged his expression. There was the slightest, most minute twitch in the corner of his left eye, and Harry took it as a sign that he had made the right decision. He stepped backwards, hand closing more firmly on the glass, and lifted it as if in a toast.

“Cheers,” Malfoy said, taking the second glass, his heavy rings clinking against the cool cup. They touched glasses with a soft _clink_ , and drank them down, eyes locked. Harry would not take his eyes off Malfoy, especially not for the way his long neck seemed to extend so gracefully as he sipped from the glass, the way those lips curled around the contours of it. Harry wondered if those lips would curl around him in the same way.

There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that only grew as the Veritaserum’s compulsion settled into him. “You’ve tricked me,” he gasped, looking down at the drained glass. Malfoy said nothing, hands spread, affecting an innocent expression. “I-- you’ve had me on, Malfoy, that’s not fair.”

“It’s your game, Potter,” Malfoy drawled, banishing the twin glasses. “I’ve only been a proper host.”

“A proper host,” Harry spat, though he couldn’t deny it, not while under the potion’s effect. He huffed a frustrated breath, arms crossed, jaw clenched. The Aurors had just a bit of training with Veritaserum, enough to protect them in a truly dangerous situation. Harry wasn’t certain if this counted.

“How did you know I’d pick that one?” Harry asked, running his hand through his hair.

“Doesn’t matter,” Malfoy went on, voice syrupy. “What is it you want to know?”

“Why did you kill the Minister?” Harry asked, words pulled from his chest before he could think them through and pose them in a more thoughtful way. “What is it that that was meant to accomplish? And why _tonight_ of all nights? And--” he swallowed hard, the next set of questions (far unrelated to the Minister) bubbling in his throat.

“Hmm,” Malfoy hummed. “I’ll answer the first, and we can take off our shoes to start.”

Harry nodded in agreement before he could freeze his head in position.

“The Minister had some rather… _challenging_ proposals, you’ll agree?” Malfoy asked. And though Harry nodded in agreement, it was rather more complicated than ‘challenging.’ The Minister had detailed and extensive reforms that would make many significant changes to the Wizarding justice system, the Wizengamot’s selection process (the Malfoy house would lose a heritage seat in favor of a more democractic system), and would provide new integration for Muggleborn wizards. They were all important changes to be made, but the wizarding population as a whole was -- well, reluctant would be a kind word for it. Recalcitrant perhaps better.

“You disagree with the policies?” Harry assumed, voicing around the Veritaserum.

“They’re thoughtful reforms,” Malfoy answered carefully, “But the Minister must have known he was at risk by suggesting such massive changes.”

“At risk,” Harry snorted, “Maybe for a bit of debate, sure, but not for bodily harm.”

“Bodily harm,” Malfoy murmured, more like a purr. He leaned down to begin untying his neat black dress shoes, and Harry mimicked him, hands nervous and uncooperative. “Am I at risk of bodily harm, Potter?”

“No,” Harry said, too quickly. He corrected himself, “not if you follow my orders.”

“Oh, your orders?” Malfoy tugged one shoe off, and then the other.

“My orders,” Harry said more firmly, though he felt utterly subordinate to Malfoy, especially when he used that sharp, commanding tone. It filled his mind and drew his attention entirely away.

“What _else_ do you want to know?” And the Veritaserum in his chest, oh, it begged to answer that question with his most honest interest. It was only years of Auror training that held him back.

“Tell me how you did it.”

“Did what?”

“Killed him,” Harry said, thinking it must be obvious.

Malfoy steepled his fingers together, tucking them under his chin. He eyed Harry carefully, a new tint to his gaze, something more sharp, more clear than had been there all night. “Auror Potter, are you looking for a confession?”

Harry met that gaze, leaning forward on his knees. “Yes,” he said, honestly. “Entirely.”

“I don’t think you need me to describe it to you,” Malfoy murmured, voice dropping. He began to unbutton his dress shirt, fingers flickering over his wrists. “You saw it all, didn’t you?”

And Harry’s tongue did not stop, no, the words tumbled out of him. “Couldn’t take my eyes off of you,” he said, pressing his hand to his mouth, trying to stem the words. “I watched the whole thing.”

“What did you see?” Malfoy asked as the hand with the twin rings passed over the buttons at his collar, moving slowly, carefully downward. Harry watched that hand with wide, rapt attention, only half-registering the question.

“You’re wearing different rings tonight,” he said, stupidly, distracted by the flash of green and silver at Malfoy’s collarbone. “I noticed that first.”

“You’re a good Auror,” Malfoy purred, tugging open the second button. “What else?”

“You went to the Minister,” Harry continued, “you spoke to him. Distracted him. You’re very good at that, you know. Distracting people. I think that’s what you’re doing to me now, but this--” he cut himself off, shaking his head, pressing his hand to his lips. “Fuck _this_ , it has me talking too much.”

“You saw me speak to the Minister,” Malfoy prompted, nearly half of his pale, clean-shaven chest revealed. Harry’s mouth watered.

He continued speaking, somehow, words tumbling from some innate part of himself he couldn’t quite place. “You did _something_ , I’m sure of it. With your hands.” Harry mimicked the movement Malfoy had made, one hand passing over the other above the empty whiskey glass between them. “With that ring, that poison ring.”

“Hmm,” Malfoy said with a dark smile that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. He tugged the shirt free and arched a single eyebrow. “I’ll confirm it all,” he added, nodding to Harry’s shirt, “if you’ll keep up your end of the deal.”

Hesitating for only a second, Harry began to undo his own buttons, eyes on Malfoy, throat tight. His hands were nearly shaking with -- what was it? Anticipation? Anxiety? He felt like prey, the way that Malfoy stared at him. Like he wanted to eat him. And some deep, terrifying part of Harry was alright with that. As if he would lay himself entirely bare for this man with his intense gaze and those hands that looked able to tear him limb from limb. He let his shirt slide off of his shoulders.

“I did all of that,” Malfoy breathed. “Distracted the Minister.” He re-enacted the hand motion slowly, obviously, the little twist of one finger over the other, the soft _snick_ of the ring opening over his own whiskey glass. “Put something into his cup. It’s all true.” Harry stared at him, trying to parse out why Malfoy would say it all so plainly to him. The Pensieve memories were not quite admissible evidence, but it would be enough to bring him in at very least. And with his record? The conviction would slide through.

“What else do you want to know about me?” Malfoy whispered it, leaning closer.

“You let me see you do it,” Harry said, eyes narrowed, confused. “You _knew_ I was watching you.” It was only the truth of what he had concluded, pouring out of him. “You watch me just as much as I do you at these things. There’s no way you missed the fact that I couldn’t--” He paused, trying to stop himself. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Not for a second. Not for a minute. I didn’t want to, either,” he shoved a knuckle to his mouth, biting down. Stopping himself from going on.

“I did,” Malfoy said, and somehow, his hand came down on Harry’s knee and Harry swore, leaning closer to Malfoy, putting his own hand on Malfoy’s knee, begging for the space between them to disappear. “I wanted you to see it all,” Malfoy breathed, and Harry could feel the words ghosting over his skin, “I wanted you to watch me do it.”

“ _Be my ally_ , that’s what you said,” Harry added, so close he could see that Malfoy had a tiny freckle on the corner of his right eye. “Why did you say that?”

“Attention, perhaps,” Malfoy answered, voice a soft whisper, nearly inaudible, “or perhaps it’s that assassinship is a lonely profession.”

“Is that what you are?”

“An assassin? Not in so many words.” Malfoy’s hand on his knee had shifted infinitesimally upward, brushing over the fabric of his trousers. “That’s another question, Potter.” His hand fell between Harry’s knees, to his ankle. Malfoy tugged, pulling Harry’s foot out awkwardly from underneath him, and then any sense of discomfort was gone.

Those long fingers played up the side of his ankle, tugging his soft gray sock off. That hand ghosted along the flat line at the back of his foot, brushed over his heel with just enough pressure for every bit of Harry’s attention to be right _there,_ and only there. Where his finger tip was just under the arch of Harry’s foot, somehow not tickling, somehow warm and soft and firm, and Harry wanted to cry out. To beg for more. To kick him off.

“What do you want?” Harry asked, when Malfoy had removed the second sock. His feet lay bare on either side of Malfoy’s thighs while Malfoy tugged his own black socks off, casting them aside with barely a glance.

“That’s a good question,” Malfoy drawled, fingers brushing over Harry’s shins. He could feel it, just barely, through his trousers, where those hands touched, paused, and continued. “What I want, I won’t ask for. Not while you’re dosed up.”

“No?” Harry almost wanted him to ask. Whatever questions lay on Malfoy’s tongue were surely those same answers itching to fall from Harry’s lips. “What if I want to answer?”

“You spoil me, Potter,” Malfoy said. “Ask me something else about tonight. You’re still missing a piece of the puzzle, aren’t you?”

Harry thought for a moment. He had to take nearly a full minute to quiet the buzzing _need_ in his mind, long enough to breathe and shut his eyes, long enough to play through Malfoy’s little dance around the Minister once again. “Oh,” he said finally, “It’s obvious. What did you use? What poison?”

“Ah, poor question,” Malfoy sighed. “I thought you were better than that.”

“What--” Harry began, irritated. It was a perfectly useful question and one he would need to make a claim against Malfoy.

“I won’t answer it,” Malfoy said, “even a _basic_ brewer ought to know enough from the residue in the ring, which I _know_ you saw.” He wiggled the finger with the ring on it at Harry, shaking his head. “And an Auror ought to be at least _basic_ ,” he murmured. “One should expect that.”

Harry began to defend himself, when Malfoy held up a hand, effectively silencing him. He shut his mouth, frowning at the man across from him. Malfoy went on, “The right question was ‘Draco, darling, why would you ask me to be your ally?’ Obviously.”

The curiosity mixed devilishly with the Veritaserum in his system, and Harry echoed the question before he could stop himself.

“Great question,” Malfoy snarked, eyes bright. “It’s simple. I slip you the ring, you’re seen rushing off from the scene of the crime, and then you return tomorrow -- after a day of hiding -- with far too much knowledge of the crime. You’ll go under, go to Azkaban, and be completely out of the way. Problem solved.”

Harry swallowed hard. It was simple. It was clean. And unless he went to Azkaban with Malfoy in tow, well, it _could_ work. “How did you know I would follow you?”

Malfoy shook his head at that, almost laughing. He summoned the decanter of whiskey over to them again, pouring some into each of their glasses after a quick _Evanesco_. “As if you would let me go. As if you would give up the opportunity to follow me.” He actually laughed at little, a huff under his breath. “Potter, you have been watching me since we were eleven. Are you honestly uncertain about _that_ part of it?”

Harry supposed not, but didn’t say it. He swallowed, meeting that intense gaze once again. “How did you know I’d take that glass? _I_ didn’t know which glass I would take.”

“Hmm,” Malfoy drawled, pressing his fingers over his chin. “Perhaps I didn’t know which glass you would take,” he offered, an arched eyebrow. “Perhaps I dosed them both.”

“But--” Harry started, suddenly suspicious of him all over again, “you’re not affected by it. Clearly, you’re not.”

“Perhaps not,” Malfoy said, standing up from his spot on the side of the pool with a drip. “But I haven’t told a lie once this evening.”

Had there been less of Draco exposed, Harry might have made sense of Draco’s statement. Might have tried to understand it all. As it stood, he was too distracted by those neat, aristocratic thumbs shifting to Malfoy’s waistband, tugging those gray trousers off in a single swoop. And there was _so much_ skin. Skin and tight black trousers. Skin and legs that seemed to go for ages, sculpted and muscular and Harry wanted to reach over and _bite_ that thigh. He stood up, hurrying to copy Malfoy, fingers slipping to his own waistband, fumbling with the catch. He was far less graceful than Malfoy had been, but he kicked the trousers away all the same.

They stood, staring at one another, clad only in their pants, and in Malfoy’s case, those five rings. Harry stepped forward this time, a hand out to touch Malfoy’s bent forearm. Malfoy summoned the two whiskey glasses from the ground, pressing one into Harry’s hand. He threw his wand aside too, so it landed with their discarded clothes.

“We should fly,” Draco said, “till the Veritaserum wears off.”

“Ask me whatever you want,” Harry breathed, “I’ll tell you whatever you want.” It was true, every word of it. Every second of it.

“Let’s fly,” Malfoy said again. He took a sip of the whiskey, eyes on Harry. “I won’t take advantage of this, much as I want to do so.”

“You’ve killed a man,” Harry stepped closer, intoxicated by the warmth, the smell, the _Malfoy_ here in front of him, “and you worry about my honor?”

“Endlessly, Potter,” Malfoy said, and finished his whiskey, crinkling his nose at the burn. He took a long sip of his own and set it down on a small side table. With those sharp gray eyes not leaving his, Malfoy reached his hand out. From a tiny shed at the furthest corner of the roof, an expensive broom buzzed through the air and snapped into Malfoy’s open palm.

“Where’s mine?” Harry asked petulantly, eyeing the well-oiled handle of the broom with not a little bit of envy.

“We’ll share,” Malfoy answered, a quirk to his smile. He mounted the broom without another word, without another glance back at Harry, and Harry, already feeling the cool night air on his skin, stepped closer. Malfoy’s bare shoulders were wiry but clearly strong, pale and toned over his back.

He was already beginning to rise when Harry snapped, sliding onto the broom behind him, and then they were moving, flying and he leaned forward to wrap his hands around Malfoy’s waist. The wind buffeted through his hair, making his eyes water and he pressed closer to Malfoy, digging his fingers into his hips, his right hand on Malfoy’s thigh. They flew, Harry’s heart racing as they moved faster and more cleanly through the air than he had done in ages.

Somewhere between Malfoy’s third sudden dive and masterful twist up towards the moon, Harry found himself pressed against Malfoy’s back, breathing in tandem. It felt incredible, their bodies moving together, leaning right with a twist of shoulders against shoulders. The barest twitch of Malfoy’s right thigh queued Harry to lean to the right with him. They flew through the air like one body, so attuned to the wind and to each other.

They paused, hovering in the air metres and metres above the roof. Harry could see the soft greens of the little garden low below, but nothing more. He swallowed, waiting for Malfoy to speak first. They both panted, breath coming hot and fast together.

Malfoy glanced over his shoulder, catching Harry’s eye, flickering over his bicep, at the little Snitch tattoo spinning and flicking there, down over Harry’s arm. Those eyes seemed entranced, distracted, watching the skin of Harry’s arm like it held some kind of secret. Feeling vulnerable, Harry shifted his fingers over Malfoy’s thigh, drawing a little line over the tender skin there.

Malfoy looked up at him, then, pale and thin and strong all at once, hair haloed by the light of the moon reflecting off the dark water. “Is the Veritaserum still working?” Malfoy breathed, eyes bright, searching.

Harry considered for a moment. “You look awful in the moonlight,” he tested it, and flushed slightly as the lie left his mouth while still managing to reveal a truth. “It’s done.”

“Would you still answer any question I asked you?” Malfoy said, though the words felt more like a challenge. In answer, Harry pushed somehow even closer on the broom, the line of his hips fitting into the line of Malfoy’s hips, skin singing with closeness.

Before Harry could take another breath, the broom was falling -- or, not falling exactly, but _flying_ , shooting through the air towards the roof at rapid speed and he held onto Malfoy as though he might fall. Though somehow, he knew that Malfoy would not let him fall.

Their rapid descent pulled up but a metre from the roof and Harry gasped, not realizing that he had been holding his breath. They sank slowly to the ground and Harry dismounted, dragging Malfoy with him and breathing hard.

He brushed a single finger over Malfoy’s shoulder again, tracing over the line of his bicep, down over his forearm. He circled his fingers around Malfoy’s wrist, drew it up between them.

The rings shone even brighter in the moonlight, picking up and reflecting on the light and the dancing shadows, the buzz of the city beyond the flat. They were striking against Malfoy’s delicate hand, silver and too full of danger. And _oh,_ Harry would answer any question, do anything, would lay himself back and turn his body over to Malfoy in a heartbeat, Veritaserum be damned.

Harry raised the hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the pads of Malfoy’s fingers. Malfoy seemed to have stopped breathing.

“Do you want this?” Malfoy asked, suddenly, voice falling just a little too high. He swallowed, and Harry watched the gentle bob of his Adam's apple, the trace of the skin at his throat, over his collarbones, so handsome in the diffuse light.

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry said finally, not a trace of the potion compelling the truth from him. “Every bit of it,” he added, and pressed his lips again to Malfoy’s fingers, holding that wrist tight.

“Me too,” Malfoy agreed, and stepped closer, his other hand coming to settle over Harry’s hip. “Good,” he whispered as Harry pressed those fingers into his mouth, tongue moving between them, over them. He pulled the wrist further up, hand at Malfoy’s elbow and took the fingers into his mouth, curling his tongue over them, between them, letting Malfoy press his hands against the very back of his throat. He groaned as he felt the sharp edges of the rings at his lips and pressed the flat of his tongue to the edge of the emerald one, letting his eyes close in the pleasure of it.

If Malfoy had looked down, he would have seen that Harry was blindingly hard at only the feeling of Malfoy’s fingers in his mouth. Would have seen how badly Harry wanted this. He was distracted, though. Malfoy’s other hand moved up from his waist to the back of his neck and he pushed ever-so-slightly, his fingers sliding even deeper into Harry’s mouth. Harry’s eyes flickered shut, rolling back into his head at the sensation.

Too quickly, that hand was disappearing, dragging him in for a blistering kiss, and their mouths, still damp and warm from the fly, met with a crash. Harry lost the plot for a moment, then. He was lips meeting lips, meeting skin, meeting the joint of Malfoy’s throat where his jaw turned to his neck -- he was hands, roaming freely over the miles and miles of Malfoy’s bare skin. He was lit with it, Malfoy’s hands scratching down his back, gripping hard at his biceps, on fire where those lips had met and bit and sucked at his neck.

“Fuck,” he said, when their hips crashed together, “fuck.” He stared up at the stars as Malfoy threaded a hand into his hair, tugging his head back with a painful twist, but all sense of pain was replaced by the feeling of Malfoy’s tongue laving over the vein in his throat, pressing kisses bruisingly deep right there and _oh_ did he want every inch of it.

He could feel Malfoy hard against him, and Harry was desperately hard, barely breathing at the feeling of it, certain that the first press of fingers over his cock would have him coming in an instant.

Malfoy pushed them, then, sending Harry nearly tripping backwards, toward the same small bench where their cups were abandoned, and Harry got the hint, moving too eagerly. He didn’t care. Malfoy lifted him bodily, shoving him onto the bench, and then those hands were splaying over his thighs, pushing them apart.

“I’m going to suck you,” Malfoy said, those gray eyes meeting Harry’s for the briefest of seconds -- a question -- and Harry groaned, all words gone -- an answer. He sank his hands into Malfoy’s hair, pulling it back, out of the way, giving himself some kind of leverage so that he could stay grounded. The wooden bench was cold underneath him, but any thought of complaint was quickly gone at the first too-gentle touch of Malfoy’s lips to the head of his cock.

He was hard and leaking, harder than he had possibly ever been, and Malfoy’s _breath_ was more firm than his lips where they traced over the head, pressing soft kisses over the sensitive skin, dragging his tongue across Harry’s slit. Harry swore, tugging at Malfoy’s hair and arching over him. Malfoy’s hands tightened on his thighs, keeping him firmly in place. He looked up at Harry with a fierce expression, pupils blown wide.

“Stay _still_ ,” he murmured, lips ghosting over the head of Harry’s too-sensitive prick. Harry gulped, nodded, and then groaned as Malfoy pressed down, taking the head into his mouth and sucking _tight_ and _hot_ and --

And every thought Harry had ever had about rings and arrest paperwork was entirely gone. Reduced to the sensation of Malfoy pulling back, his fingers, rings still clad and shiny, dancing around the base of his cock, holding him tight and jerking as he pressed his mouth back down, took him in deeper.

And it hadn’t been _like this_ , not in the years since _that night_. He had received plenty of blowjobs, and given more. But the way that Malfoy’s tongue was sliding over the underside of his cock, his hand twisting, pulling, pressing, the way he seemed to move ever-deeper until his cock was certainly hitting the back of Malfoy’s throat and threatening to push deeper _still_.

Malfoy pulled his hand away from the base of his cock and pushed back on his knees for a moment, catching his breath. Harry panted over him, hands clenching against the edge of the bench. The cool night air on his skin did nothing to still the racing of his heart.

And then Malfoy was coming back, eyes even more bitter, sharp, frightening than before. He slammed his hands against Harry’s thighs, right at the juncture of hip and thigh, digging his thumbs in to hold him _there._ He parted his lips around the head of Harry’s cock and Harry -- “Ah, _fuck_ , Malfoy” -- well, he let his hands slide into Malfoy’s hair, long and tangled, and _tugged_.

And Malfoy pressed and pressed until his nose pressed against Harry, and Harry’s cock was so deep he couldn’t tell if he was seeing real stars or only those behind his eyes. He groaned, holding onto Malfoy’s hair for dear life, and Malfoy pulled back and sucked once more, tongue curling under his cock with just the slightest of pressure and he was tugging at Malfoy’s hair, trying to warn him, trying to pull back and--

Then he was coming, shouting somewhere between a groan and incoherent words, and Malfoy took it all, pulling back to suckle at the head, eyes shut but fluttering.

He removed his hands from Harry’s thighs to run his fingers over his mouth, rings winking as Harry fought to regain any semblance of coherence, of consciousness.

“Well,” Malfoy rasped, voice fucked-out as all hell, and if _that_ didn’t make Harry’s cock twitch all over again. “Suppose that was decent,” he said, and pushed off on his knees, getting gracefully to his feet.

“Decent--” Harry spluttered, still coming back to his own head. He scraped his hands through his hair, over his face, coming to rest gingerly on his thighs. They still stung where Malfoy’s fingers had bit into his skin, sending fresh tingles over his body.

After a moment, he shoved off the bench and walked off after Malfoy, grabbing for his shoulder to tug him back. He snagged Malfoy by that one aristocratic wrist and _pulled_ , and Malfoy spun backwards into him. What might have been funny, tugging Malfoy out of his irascible pacing, rapidly turned fiery again as they were suddenly _so close_ , Malfoy’s chest centimetres from his own, his cock _\-- beautiful,_ and better than Harry remembered it -- hard between them.

Harry looked down between them, and then back at Malfoy, letting him see that he was looking. He wanted more than anything to reach down and touch, to feel Malfoy, every inch of his long, ridiculous pale skin, to taste him in the tendon where his thigh met his hip, at the web in his fingers between his thumb and first finger, at the spot on his neck where his jaw met the base of his ear.

He leaned forward, dizzy with it, mouth crashing against Malfoy’s jaw, kissing backwards, his hands moving so tentatively towards him in the water. As Harry bit at his earlobe, tongue sliding over the corner of his jaw, Malfoy grabbed Harry’s hands and pressed them behind Harry’s back, holding both by the wrist with one of his.

Harry groaned into him then, forehead falling to press against his shoulder as the feeling thrilled through his body. He was still so sensitive and the stretch of his shoulders only made him feel more bare, more _owned_ , and _Merlin_ he would let Malfoy take it all.

“Look at the stars, Potter,” Malfoy whispered into his ear, and Harry looked up without even pausing. “Do you see?” Malfoy stepped closer, shifting within the centimetre of space between their bodies. Harry could feel Malfoy’s cock, hard and hot, brushing against his thigh in the cool air. But his hands were pinned and he could do nothing but stare into the great darkness of the sky, breath hard at his throat.

“There,” Malfoy pointed with his free hand, leaning so they could both look along the neat arch of his bicep, up his muscular forearm with its network of tattoos, over his long, manicured fingers, over the rings, the silver triad -- and really, Harry could just stand right there and stare at that hand -- but Malfoy’s grip on his wrists tightened _deliciously_ and he followed his gaze up to the string of stars.

“That’s my star, right there,” Malfoy whispered, and it felt like he was showing Harry a part of himself, something more intimate than his hands over Harry’s thighs, hot and desperate and wanting. He looked over at Malfoy, distracted by the curve of his ear, the set of his jaw. Under the light of only the moon, he could see the stars reflected in Malfoy’s eyes, shining and more silver than the steel gray of his irises. So close, he could see it all, all the meaning held in those stars for Malfoy. It felt like he was seeing straight into his very soul.

Of course, all such thoughts immediately left his mind when Malfoy released his wrists to lean in and press a kiss to Harry’s shoulder, over one of the places he had marked with his fingers. But it was the _look_ in Malfoy’s eye when he met his gaze that Harry had kept his hands there, one wrist held in the grip of his other hand, legs spread neatly for Malfoy, that made him realize exactly how much he was in for.

“Good boy,” Malfoy drawled, trailing his fingers down Harry’s shoulders, to the place where his wrists were clasped. “So good for me,” he whispered.

All sense of the stars forgotten, Harry flushed and he looked down, but Malfoy was quick. He reached out with one finger, pressing Harry’s chin up to meet his eyes again. “I want to take you inside,” he said, voice low, intent, “what do you think of that?”

“Inside?” Harry stuttered, distracted by the intensity in Malfoy’s eyes.

“My bedroom,” Malfoy clarified, unblinking.

Every inch of Harry screamed _yes_ , to go with him, to follow him to every inch of the earth and further if he wanted. Any worry about the Minister, about the night, about Malfoy’s games was entirely gone. In its place was the sight of a posh bed hung with Slytherin greens, Malfoy naked and lying across it.

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry breathed, and finally broke position to wrap his arms around Malfoy’s shoulders, to let them Apparate away.

He blinked, and they landed in the bedroom cast in cool neutrals, grays and black, sleek and sensual, redone in the years since he had last been inside. The bed _was_ enormous, with a massive decorative iron frame and a neat nightstand. He stared, mouth open for a moment, taking in the heady scent of _Malfoy_ washing over him from every angle. And then those hands were stroking over his shoulder, casting a warming charm, a sweat-cleansing charm. The sensation of Malfoy’s magic pouring over him, caring for him, thrilled him, and Harry shivered, pressing closer.

In the dry air of Malfoy’s bedroom, their bodies touched, flushed with heat. Harry could feel both of their cocks, thick and hard, pressed between them and _dying_ to be touched. Malfoy’s fingers traced over the edge of Harry’s jaw, a gentling thing. Quiet, careful. Awe-struck, almost. Harry flushed, and turned his head to kiss the tips of Malfoy’s fingers. The only thing he wore were his rings, the three silver bands on his left and the two ornate rings on his right. The regular and the obnoxious. The useful and the poisonous. Harry wasn’t sure which set turned him on more.

“Do you still want this?” Malfoy asked, eyes sharp, chin up. A challenge. An invitation. Harry leaned forward, nodding, and kissed him with a fervor that ought to answer the question for him. It was like stars crashing, burning out into a supernova.

Malfoy pressed his lips to Harry’s throat, and Harry tugged them backwards towards the bed with hands on Malfoy’s naked hips. And Malfoy followed, step for step, leaving a trail of bruises and heat along Harry’s throat, his collarbone.

Malfoy’s teeth grazed over his collarbone and Harry groaned, arching into him, his hips sliding forward to meet Malfoy’s in the air without enough friction. And then he was falling, pushed backwards, tossed bodily towards the bed and he wasn’t quite sure he knew how to breathe or see straight for that matter because he was back to the blankets, lost in the thick silk of the quilt and then Malfoy was on top of him.

Malfoy rode his hips, one hand braced against Harry’s knee, grinding their cocks together as he arched backwards. Harry could swear he had never seen a more incredible, erotic sight as their cocks leaking over his stomach as Malfoy arched and rolled them together.

“Fuck, _Malfoy_ \--” Harry groaned, reaching to tug him closer, almost begging for greater friction between them. Malfoy obliged, falling forward with one hand bracketed on either side of Harry’s face.

And “ _fucking Godric_ ,” Harry was saying, as Malfoy slid his hips deliciously, too slowly, down over his cock, their chests pressed together, their cocks together, every inch touching.

It was the weight of him, of Malfoy pressing every inch of him into the bed, hands trapping him. Malfoy was slightly shorter than him, but he didn’t feel that way, not with his knees at either side of Harry’s hips, Malfoy’s hips pressing down hard, his arms holding him. He was everything and everywhere.

And then. And it was almost evil, the way he did it. Malfoy slid off of him.

He shifted to the side, so no part of him was touching Harry, kneeling there next to him. His eyes roamed over Harry, and Harry felt exposed. Watched. Examined. As if Malfoy could see every inch of his skin and deeper. He wanted to curl away from the intensity of his gaze, but he felt pinned, desperate for more of those eyes, those fingers, that mouth on him.

“Be still,” Malfoy murmured, and drew his wand. Harry almost flinched, eyes tracking the wand as it shifted over him, but he obeyed, the only motion to tighten his fists in the sheets. A feather-light magic, soft and yet firm enough to make its presence known, traced over Harry’s body where Malfoy pointed the wand. It felt at once cold and hot, sending a delicious tingle straight to his crotch from wherever it touched.

Malfoy sent the magic from the tip of his right ring finger, up like fingers over his forearm, dancing across his bicep and drawing gooseflesh in its wake. Harry arched up off the bed as the touch, too light to be satisfying, too firm to ignore, sped down his chest and danced inches from his leaking cock. He groaned when it traced up his thigh, feeling like Malfoy had just trailed his tongue from the inside of Harry’s knee in its most sensitive spot up his thigh and towards his hip.

And the magic was gone too quickly, replaced by Malfoy’s teeth tugging at his nipple, drawing his attention again and he cursed, a hand flying up to knit into Malfoy’s hair and _when had Malfoy put it up_ and _was that even fair_? And then Malfoy was stopping and Harry let out an actual whine.

“What did I tell you?” Malfoy drawled, a single finger lifted to press Harry back into the mattress. “One thing,” he said.

“Stay still,” Harry gasped, still breathless. _When had Malfoy become so bossy_? Dear god, it made him so hard he could barely _think_.

“Do I need to tie you up?” he asked, finger sliding from Harry’s chest to trace around his bicep. And Harry’s skin was so sensitive, so stimulated that even that sent a shiver down his spine in the best of ways.

Harry shook his head. “I’ll be still,” he promised (begged), and seeing Malfoy’s doubtful gaze, moved. He placed his wrists, one on top of the other, neatly over his head. He looked to Malfoy for approval, but found only a hungry gaze, seemingly ready to devour him whole.

Malfoy looked him over, head to toe, as if he were searching for any hidden depths of him, any secret things tucked away. And, finding none, he let his hands skate over Harry’s body, nails raking over his skin, pinching his nipple, scratching through his hair, along his biceps. Malfoy picked up one of Harry’s hands, tugging it as he had while they were at the Ministry party, and Harry’s eyes drifted shut, feeling dizzy, overwhelmed, all focus shrunken down to those long, cool fingers as they plied over his hand, pressed into his palm. It was exhilarating. It was consuming.

Malfoy tossed his hand back above his head as if he was finished with it, and Harry resumed his position. One wrist atop the other. Waiting. Impatient and hard and tingling everywhere.

Harry wasn’t sure it could get hotter than this and then -- _Ah, fuck_ , Malfoy said, or breathed, or whispered, Harry couldn’t be sure, because Malfoy was pressing one lubed finger into himself, knees straddling Harry’s hips, spread out over him. And all Harry could do was watch and try to keep his hips from twitching upwards.

And Malfoy’s clean hand was pressing down onto Harry’s chest, twisting a nipple, and Harry was overwhelmed with paying attention to that sweet pleasure-pain and the sight of Malfoy’s hand slipping inside of himself. Those long, elegant fingers pressing like he did this every night -- _did he do this every night?_ \-- first one, then two.

Harry’s memory and his vision got a bit spotty when he realized that those goddamned rings were still right there, sitting on Malfoy’s finger, pressing up against his rim, as if they were a part of his body. They were both utterly naked, stripped bare, with nothing to hide. And Malfoy had had ample time to remove them. Harry imagined the edge of them stimulating right at the edge of his own rim, the way it must feel and --

“Breathe, Potter,” Malfoy said, fingers wet with lube pressed over his collarbone, pressing in sharply. Harry blinked at him, disoriented, and realized his breath was sharp in his throat. He took a long breath in and his lungs screamed in relief and Malfoy. He looked _amused_ , shaking his head at Harry with that tiniest quirk of a smile.

“Better,” Malfoy said and leaned down to capture him in a kiss. It was gentle, somehow. Unhidden. Harry kissed back, his head coming up off the pillows to meet Malfoy’s lips, arching into him, a _please_ aching from him. His cock was blindingly hard, and his skin felt flushed and red all over. And if Malfoy didn’t put those dirty fucking hands on him in another minute, well. There might just be another murder tonight.

They kissed one more time, and Malfoy tapped his wrists. “You can move,” he said, voice commanding, and Harry wasted no time, hands jetting up. He paused for just a moment, hesitant, staring up at those sharp gray eyes, those kiss-bitten lips, the spot on Malfoy’s neck that was rapidly turning into a bruise. And he reached up, tugging the tie from his hair and letting that long blond hair come tumbling down, curled at the edges and slightly damp with sweat. It fell over his long, lean back and over his shoulders. Harry groaned, reaching up to tangle a hand into Malfoy’s hair, threading his fingers through the fine, silky texture.

He let his other hand slip down to Malfoy’s side, digging into the flesh there, curling around his waist. He looked up, meeting Malfoy’s eyes; Malfoy, whose eyes had fluttered shut, looking utterly decadent, devoured, delicious. Harry pressed his hand further, slipping to his crease, through the slick texture of lube there, watching as Malfoy groaned so quietly and bucked against him, as if he were holding it all back.

“Is this-- er, is it okay?” Harry asked, running his fingers around Malfoy’s slickened rim. He was still _so_ tight, Harry could tell that much, but wet with lube and twitching as if he wanted to invite Harry inside.

His eyes met Malfoy’s, and Malfoy rolled his eyes at him. “ _Okay_ ,” he drawled, “Potter, I do not _do_ ‘okay,’” he shook his head, tossing hair out of his eyes. He leaned down, pressing his hips backwards, pressing the tip of Harry’s finger _inside_ , and put his elbows against Harry’s shoulders, pressing him into the bed as he brought his head, his eyes close to Harry’s.

And it should have been just hot, and only that. Except Malfoy had the softest eyelashes, and Harry could see each of them so close he could count them. And his eyes were not pure silver-gray. There was some blue, pale as daylight, flecked into the edges. He had a freckle, just at the corner of his right eye.

It was the softest reprieve, because then Malfoy made an _ungodly_ noise, and Harry twitched his finger in further, pressing inside where Malfoy has already loosened himself up so neatly, and really, all Harry had to do was push a touch more and Malfoy was cursing with more words than Harry even _knew_ existed and--

And Harry was so overwhelmingly overheated, so fucking hard he could barely breathe. Harry pressed _there,_ against that bundle of nerves, and pushed a second finger alongside the first. And Malfoy groaned, a deep and guttural sound. And he came, slick and wet across Harry’s stomach, spurting up just below Harry’s chin. It was deliriously dirty.

Overwhelmed and watching, Harry could feel the way that Malfoy’s hole was twitching and throbbing around his hand, and Malfoy’s hair was long and loose and in his face. And then. And then Malfoy’s long, elegant, careful fingers, ringed with neat metal bands pressed around his cock. And it took two, maybe three strokes, firm around him.

Was that _him_ , screaming like that? Because either way, his stomach was covered in his come and Malfoy’s, and there was sweat over every inch of him and he was so overheated and--

Breathing. Is something he was meant to be doing. Malfoy had all but collapsed over him, pressing their stomachs together, slick with come and sweat between their bodies. They were breathing heavily, the both of them, and Harry was not sure where he ended and Malfoy began.

“Well,” Malfoy drawled, rolling to one side, crushing Harry’s arm in the process.

Harry grumbled, all words gone, and curled after him, pressing himself against Malfoy’s back, the slick and sweat between them wet and sticky.

“Disgusting,” Malfoy said, though his voice was soft. Gentling.

Malfoy slid out of the bed and reached a hand out behind him. Harry stared at it. Malfoy turned back. “Come on. We’ve got to shower.” Harry muttered something about a _Scourgify_ , curling against the soft sheets.

“Absolutely not,” Malfoy snapped. “Come on,” he said again, reaching to tug Harry’s hand. “I’m not done with you yet.” And that was enough. He looked up, catching those gray eyes, that slight sparkle of menace and something _more_ promised within them. Harry slid out of the bed, pressing his chin against Malfoy’s shoulder, and followed him to the ridiculously luxurious shower with its ridiculously delicious-smelling shampoo.

Malfoy left the rings on the counter beside the sink. There was a little dish there, as if this were a ritual he did every night—sliding them off one by one to _plink_ into the ceramic. His hands looked bare without them, too long and soft and gentle. None of that aristocratic elegance, just Draco Malfoy, entirely naked.

The shower was steamy and soft on Harry’s skin, smelling like peppermint and lemon and something else. And if he let Malfoy sponge over his skin, if it felt something like worship, the both of them absolutely bare with nothing left to hide, well. He wasn’t going to think too much about that.

And if he ended up with his knees pressed into the cool porcelain and his mouth around Malfoy’s cock, well. That was no different from their first time, wasn’t it? It’s not like there was something fundamentally different between them, now. It’s not like this time felt a little more like tearing himself open and letting Malfoy look inside. Except that it did feel different. It felt bare. No tricks. No trade. Just them.

And he didn’t let himself think too much about it when they stumbled back out of the shower, skin soft and red and raw from the hot water. And if Malfoy pressed against his back, wrapped an arm around Harry’s middle, twining gently around his wrist, and promptly fell asleep well. Who was to know? It was only one night, after all. And he’d arrest Malfoy in the morning anyway.

* * *

It was the pain in his wrist that woke him up first. Then the bright sunlight streaming through the window. And finally, the soft coolness of silk sheets against his bare skin, far too smooth and expensive to be his own. He took a quick catalogue of his surroundings, carefully keeping his breathing to an even stillness so as not to alert anyone who might be nearby that he was awake.

As far as he could tell, he was still entirely naked. His wrist seemed to be bound up above his head, a thin rope or cuff locking him in place, but only one wrist. The other seemed available as he twisted it gently beneath the sheets. He felt no other pain, and no sign of injury, although perhaps a bit of a tight muscle in his thigh.

And at that, the events of the night before rushed over him, and he closed his eyes with the heady feeling that settled in his throat, growing half-hard at the memory of _those hands_ pushing his thigh up against his chest, holding him there, rings (too many fucking rings) scraping against his skin, fingers tangled in his hair, gorgeous. His skin ached for it again--

Harry opened his eyes. The cool rush of morning and the reminder at his wrist of all of Malfoy’s wrongdoing sent a shiver down his spine, filling his mouth with vitriol.

“Ah, finished pretending to sleep?” Malfoy drawled, twirling something between his fingers.

“Do you often tie your lovers up _after_ you’ve finished with them?” Harry asked bitterly, twisting his wrist against the hold. He squinted across the room and reached for his glasses on the bedside table with his free hand, pushing them onto his face awkwardly with one hand.

Malfoy held his wand, naked but for the three rings on his left hand, with that same self-righteous smirk. It was unfair for him to look so good and still bear that ridiculous expression.

“Not often,” Malfoy answered, “Only when they’ve been particularly naughty.” He walked over, trailing a ringed hand over Harry’s wrist to release the bond. “Or when I need them to stay put for the night.” Those silver rings winked mere centimetres from his face, shiny and attractive and an obscene reminder of the night before.

Harry lunged for his wand in the second he was free, but Malfoy kept it just out of reach with a firm hand on his chest, shoving him back into the bed. Harry’s breath caught in his throat, and he glared up at him, vitriol in his eyes.

“Assaulting an officer,” he bit out, grabbing Malfoy’s wrist with both hands to twist it away from his chest. Malfoy used the leverage of Harry’s grip to swing a knee onto the bed, landing with one leg between Harry’s legs, just a handsbreadth away from his traitorous cock, rapidly hardening against the silky sheets.

“Oh, are we downgrading the accusations?” Malfoy drawled, dislodging Harry’s hands from his wrist with a twist. “I thought it was murder you were going for, no?”

Harry lunged again, twisting his free knee up to shove Malfoy’s hips off-kilter and tip him over on the bed, but Malfoy tutted, maintaining his balance with more finesse than Harry had realized he was capable of. Malfoy shifted until he sat across Harry’s thighs, strong muscles keeping him from moving underneath him, a vicious parody of the night before.

“You’ll be in Azkaban,” Harry snapped, and gave a final, more forceful shove, surprising Malfoy just enough to dislodge those ridiculously strong thighs and send him sprawling on the bed beside him. In an instant, Harry had a knee against his chest, the other balanced carefully on the bed and his wand snatched back out of Malfoy’s grip. Malfoy smiled bitterly, those bright teeth threatening and sexual all at once.

“Auror Potter, don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Malfoy murmured, long hair splayed out on the pillow like a halo.

“Malfoy,” Harry spat, eyes flashing in warning.

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, eyes flashing silver-gray and mischievous, “Hmm,” he drawled, “Don’t you think you ought to use my proper name now?”

Harry stared down at him, eyes narrowed at what must be a trick. “You want me to call you _Draco_ ,” he intoned, filling his voice with as much disdain as he could manage, though the feeling of that name on his lips was less unlikeable than he had expected. He tested it over in his mind, _Draco, Draco, Draco_ , the man splayed out, nude and open in front of him.

There was a love bite still high on _Draco’s_ neck, just under the edge of his jaw, red and beautiful. Harry wondered why he hadn’t healed it yet. Why he had left it there. How long he would leave it. It seemed like a badge of pride.

“No,” Malfoy said, pulling him back. “My title. Unspeakable Malfoy.”

And, using the shock of surprise that coursed through Harry’s mind as he tried to process this information, Malfoy flipped them over again, Harry’s head smacking against the pillow as he lay frozen and confused and trying to understand why an Unspeakable had killed the Minister of Magic and where exactly Harry fit into it all.

He had very little time to think it through before a sharp rap at the door, far off from them but near enough, had Malfoy whirling away, a wide expanse of pale skin retreating quickly from the room. Harry watched him go, eyes catching on the flash of the dressing gown summoned along behind him. He rubbed his wrist where it was still red from the cuff and ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth out the muss from sleep and Malfoy's wandering hands.

He heard two voices from outside the room and sat up quickly. The second seemed oddly familiar and a sinking, terrifying feeling filled him. But it couldn’t be right. Harry listened closer, but the voices grew too quiet to hear well, only the sounds of a teakettle boiling and china clinking against itself.

He could smell a pot of coffee brewing too, and that was enough to pull him out of the deep pillows. Harry searched the floor for his abandoned clothes, hopping into his trousers without even bothering to search for his pants. There was no sign of his shirt in the bedroom, Harry elected to pull on a silky maroon button-up from Malfoy’s closet.

He cuffed the sleeves up to his forearm, imagining the sneer Malfoy would put on when he saw _that_ , and ran a hand again through his messy hair. There was no hope for it.

Harry hesitated just outside the bedroom door, listening carefully to the voices. It was Malfoy and at least one other person, possibly two, but they were speaking in such low tones that it was hard to make out anything at all.

Picking his wand up from the dresser where Malfoy had left it, Harry crept out of the bedroom, armed and ready, prepared to fight or to apprehend Malfoy once again. He wasn’t certain which he would prefer at the moment.

But there, sitting at Malfoy’s kitchen table, was a man he never would have expected to see. Harry was suddenly _very_ grateful to have dressed before walking out of the room.

“Minister Mather,” he said quietly, bowing his head in deference. A thousand thoughts raced through his head, not the least of which was a sudden fear that his neck was utterly covered in bruises. “It’s good to see you…” he trailed off, unsure if ‘alive’ was an appropriate conclusion to the sentence.

Malfoy snorted from his position across the table, sipping from an enormous blue and white mug. “Sit, Potter. Have some coffee, before you strain yourself.”

Harry moved, dazed, to sit at the table, looking warily between Malfoy and Mather, trying to process what was laid out before him. Malfoy shoved a mug -- red and white striped - across the table to him, and he took it gratefully, the smell of fresh coffee filling his nose and mind.

“Sir,” Harry began, nodding to the Minister, who raised his hand with a good deal of mirth in his eyes.

“Oh Harry, my boy,” Mather interrupted, “It’s clear that Draco here didn’t tell you all the details. You were meant to do so,” Mather said, shaking his head at Malfoy with a soft _tutting_ noise, “But in any matter, more’s the time, please do update him.”

 _Malfoy_ was on speaking terms with the Minister? The Minister, who he had poisoned yesterday? Who he had said had awful policies and many people (Malfoy included) out to get him?

“It’s quite simple,” Malfoy began, hands spread on the table. “You really ought to have sorted it out by now, if you had any detective skills.” The Minister laughed a little, as if trying to lighten Malfoy’s blows, but it did little to ease Harry’s anxiety.

Malfoy tugged the emerald ring off of his finger, showing it to Harry. He clicked the casing open again, revealing the same interior he had seen the day before, and the same residue of some clear liquid. “Dreamless Sleep,” Malfoy murmured, pressing the ring closed again. “Not poison. But quite effective at _seeming_ like poison.”

He shrugged, his long blond hair plaited behind him swinging with the motion. “You weren’t the only person watching, Potter. We had intelligence that there would be an attack last night on the Minister and, of course,” he nodded to Harry, “On you.”

“We?” Harry asked, feeling blind with his overwhelmedness.

“The Unspeakable department, _do_ keep up.” Malfoy sipped his coffee, nose wrinkling at Harry, “I’m a security specialist myself,” he sighed. “A spy. An assassin. A red herring, as needed.”

Harry stared at him. “I was a target?” he asked, eyes flicking to the Minister. “And you?”

Malfoy gave an exasperated sigh, throwing himself back into the chair as if Harry were asking him to recount something for the sixteenth time, rather than the first. “You’re the strongest ally a political figure could have,” Malfoy bit out. “Not only for your Wizengamot seat, but for your sway, your voice. Nearly thirty votes follow you, however you vote, no matter the case. Did you know that? So how _handy_ it is, to have the Minister and one Harry _bloody_ Potter -- do excuse my language, Minister -- at one event.”

“There was security,” Harry protested, though weakly. He knew his teams were far from perfect. If the on-duty Aurors could have missed Malfoy slipping the Minister poison, then a real assassin could have gone straight under their noses all the same.

“Right,” Malfoy snorted. “Security, sure.”

“I would say the plan went out without a hitch, dear boy,” the Minister said, patting Malfoy’s hand. “Your team should be quite proud. Harry and myself safe, and no one the wiser.”

The Minister looked between them, all too pleased. And the plan seemed so obvious to Harry now. Make it look like a murder had been committed, thereby removing a _need_ for any attack tonight, and remove the secondary victim from the scene as quickly as possible.

Malfoy _had_ said he was sure Harry would follow, and he had been entirely right. Harry had followed him without a second’s hesitation. Though the rest of the evening’s activities seemed… well, it was probably best if the Minister didn’t know those specifics.

“Like I said,” Malfoy drawled, eyes over the coffee cup to Harry, steely gray and deeper, more serious than they had been so far. “We make great allies.”

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of H/D Cluefest and the creator is currently undercover. You can follow the fest at our [Tumblr](https://hd-cluefest.tumblr.com/). Creators will be unmasked on the 15th April.


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